Dreams Aren't Free
by BrighidOTheShire
Summary: Merry's long road to healing in Minas Tirith...
1. Chapter 1

**None of these are mine...they belong to JRR Tolkien alone, and it is as it should be. Slightly AU, obviously, but I've tried to stay true. Also, I have no beta, so any mistakes are mine alone. If you see an error and would like to let me know, I'd be pleased to fix it. Please read and review.**

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_He could see the glow of starlight on the river, hear the keening chirrup of crickets in the reeds as he walked along, hands in his pockets. He pursed his lips to whistle but thought better of it. Better not to disturb the sounds of the evening, better to let the night wend its way through the Shire as it had for longer than his recall. He smiled as he remembered long midnight tramps with Merry and Frodo at the Smials, tripping lightly across the stone bridge over the ravine, watching the rabbits play tag in the newly cut fields. He could taste the sweetness of the water from the well, tapped deep and cold from the good Shire earth. He could feel the cool summer breeze that followed the sunset of a lengthy summer day. He could see..._

_Darkness..._

Pippin woke with a start, struggling for a moment with his blankets, staring about wildly, willing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Then recall rushed over him...the Houses of Healing...he was in Gondor...

Giving a little mumble of protest and blinking sleepily, Pippin rose from his nest of blankets on the stone floor and stepped to an overlarge bed, in which his cousin was sleeping. He gave a grimace, reminding himself, "No, not just sleeping..." He pulled a thick woolen blanket to Merry's chest, tucking it tight, and stared at the pale, waxy face of his kin and best friend. Merry's hair was lank with sweat, and plastered over his forehead. He looked as poor, if not worse, as he had when Pippin found him in the tunnel underneath the gates. He blanched at the memory of poor Merry, retching and heaving, convinced that he was dead and on his way to his own burial.

Pippin gently brushed a curl away from Merry's eyes, his heart wrenched with fear. Long hours had he passed at Merry's bedside, bathing his forehead and coaxing healer's potions past Merry's pallid lips. For a time, Merry rolled his head from side to side, murmuring in a dream, delirious and unheeding. But as evening fell, he stilled and a gray pallor seemed to creep over his face, shining wet with the cold sweat of fever. Despair threatened to crush Pippin, and he laid his head across his cousin's chest, listening for the reassuring beat of Merry's heart, slow and steady. The rise and fall of Merry's breast lulled him back into sleep, with a tiny voice murmuring in his head,_ "dying...dying...dying..."_

That was how Gandalf found him, draped across Merry's chest, sleeping the deep sleep of the embattled soldier. There was a crease in his brow, and his thin mouth was pursed and frowning. "Peregrin," the wizard whispered, in a voice gentle but coarsened with age and weariness. The young hobbit lifted his head, his hair standing on end, his eyes squinted against the light of the Gandalf's torch. "You must go to rest. You can do no more for Meriadoc now..."

"What?" Panic raised Pippin's voice to a near squeak, and he clutched at Merry's limp arm. His heart was hammering and a lump rose in his throat. "He's not..."

"No, lad, he is not dead. He is gravely ill, but not dead." Gandalf encircled Pippin with his long arm and led him away from the bedside. "But you need food and rest yourself. It does you no benefit to linger here and neglect your own health. I have one hobbit to care for, and I do not need another." Pippin nodded, looking back at Merry for a moment, then he stumbled over his own feet as he stepped into the corridor. Gandalf gestured to a near chamber, where there was laid a meal of roasted chicken, hot, thick stews, breads and cheeses and fruits. Pippin's stomach rumbled suddenly, making Gandalf raise his hand to hide a smile. Pippin clambered into a chair and served himself large portions of all the dishes, spooning the stew into his mouth with a little mumble of pleasure. Gandalf sat across from him, produced his pipe from the folds of his robe, and set to filling it.

"What is going to happen, Gandalf?" asked Pippin around a mouthful of coarse bread and honey. "Why won't Merry wake up? And the White Lady?"

Gandalf puffed his pipe in silence, concentrating on the glowing embers and watching smoke wisp toward the carven ceiling. He did not know how to tell the hobbit that his cousin may well never awaken, and if he did, he would likely never be the same hobbit again. "Well, Master Took, I cannot say what will happen," he finally said, after a deep and throaty sigh. "To strike a Nazgul is to risk deadly hurt yourself, and this was not just a Nazgul. This was the Lord of the Nazgul, the Witch King of Angmar, that your cousin and the Lady Eowyn dared to strike down. He was very powerful, an ancient necromancer and king. Their bravery is not without consequence, and they have taken grave hurt."

Pippin put down his spoon and stared into his bowl. He took a deep, steeling breath. "I know I have other duties now, Gandalf, duties to Gondor. But I need to be with Merry. He shouldn't be alone." Gandalf looked at him with sad and gentle eyes.

"Yes, Peregrin. You should go to him. In this time, perhaps the love of a friend can give him the strength and hope that he needs. But you must not neglect your own health. You must remain sound and strong, so that when the time comes, you can serve Gondor as you pledged." Pushing his chair back, Gandalf took Pippin by the hand, and together they walked in silence back to the bower where Merry lay. As they entered, they found Aragorn bending over Merry's bed, his face grave and weary.

Fear stabbed at Pippin and he rushed forward, crying "Poor old Merry!" For it seemed that years had settled upon Merry's face. His skin was gray, and lines of sorrow and time were etched upon his brow. Pippin was reminded of another face, the grief-filled visage of Denethor as he slumped upon his throne, clutching a cloven horn. Aragorn laid a hand on Pippin's shoulder, and the strength of it calmed Pippin's wildly beating heart, as if with Strider there, nothing bad could happen to Merry.

Aragorn knelt at Merry's bedside, and looked at him long. He laid his hand upon Merry's right arm, testing the temperature, flexing the fingers, bending the elbow. He probed at Merry's shoulder, inspecting the color of the skin. He then rested his hand upon Merry's forehead, pushing the curls away with his thumb. Sighing deeply, he sat back on his heels and shut his eyes. In the fading light of the day, he seemed suddenly to Pippin as an aged man, stooped with time but full of wisdom. One of the healers laid at Aragorn's side a bowl of steaming water, upon which he cast a crushed handful of kingsfoil. He dipped his hand in the bowl, then drew his dripping fingertips gently over Merry's eyelids, murmuring under his breath. Pippin shut his own eyes, breathing the cleansing scent of the athelas, feeling it fill him with hope and new energy.

For a long moment Merry did not stir, but then his chest heaved in a deep, shuddering breath, almost like the rattle of death in the chest of an old man. His eyelashes flickered once, and then eased open, the pupils dilating to a pinprick in a sea of blue. He blinked once or twice against the dying light, focused upon Gandalf's face, then let his eyes rove the room and rest on each face in turn. For a moment, Pippin feared that Merry did not recognize them, but when Merry's gaze fell upon him, a small smile quirked his lips and his eyes creased a bit at the edges. But then, as though stricken by a blow, Merry's head dropped back to the pillow and he shut his eyes, tears glistening upon his lashes.

Pippin started forward, again fearful, but Gandalf stopped him with a glance that was both reassuring and daunting. The wizard laid his hand upon Pippin's shoulder, and stooped to whisper in his ear, "Why don't you fetch your cousin some dinner, Peregrin." Pippin nodded wildly and hurried from the room, for he feared losing control of the sob that was threatening to burst from his throat. He stumbled blindly into the dining chamber and began loading a plate high with food, trying not to think of the pain in Merry's face. A plate slipped from his hands, shattering upon the stone floor. As he stooped to gather the shards, tears dripping from his chin onto the pieces of pottery, he heard bootsteps behind him and dashed at his eyes, thinking to himself, "Steady, Pip...Soldier of Gondor, Tower Guard...Steady, show your worth."

"Peregrin." Gandalf's voice was quiet. "He will be all right, Pippin." Gandalf knelt at his side, removing the remainder of the plate from Pippin's hands. "He will long remember this battle, and his grief and loss. Pain will plague him for a long time, perhaps forever. But he needs you now. He has always been your strength, and he has brought you through the trials of the journey, protected you. He now needs you to protect and care for him." Pippin nodded silently and snuffled a bit, not trusting himself to answer. Instead he handed a plate of food to Gandalf and they walked slowly back to Merry's chambers.

Aragorn was at Merry's side, holding his hands and speaking quietly to him. He bowed his head, bumping his forehead to Merry's, and said gently, "May the Shire live forever unwithered." He then lightly kissed Merry's forehead, smoothed his hair with a gentle touch, and stood to leave. At a look from Aragorn, Gandalf gathered his pack and together they left the room, pulling the heavy wooden door shut behind.

Pippin dragged a chair to Merry's bedside and rested the laden tray of food across his cousin's legs. Merry attempted to grasp the spoon, but his right arm was fairly well useless, and even his left arm was weak and tremulous. Making no mention of this, Pippin steeled himself, and began to feed Merry, the cousin who had done the same for him many a time when he was a babe. The irony did not escape him. As Merry ate, Pippin tried to remain lighthearted, chatting about the goings on of Minas Tirith, occasionally dribbling hot stew on Merry's chin, just to prod him.

As Pippin scraped the last of the potatoes from the plate, Merry nodded toward the corner. "Where is that leaf? And get my pipe out of my pack, if it isn't broken." Pippin nodded, spooning the last bite of stew into Merry's mouth. Merry sighed contentedly, shifting to sit a bit straighter in the bed. Pippin rummaged in the pack for a moment. He came up with a pouch of leaf and tossed it to Merry, but it bounced off his chest and rolled across his injured arm. Pippin flushed.

"I'm sorry, Mer, I forgot."

Merry shook his head and smiled. "It's all right, Pippin. My pipe should be wrapped in the front pocket of the pack." Pippin located it and returned to Merry's side. He sat on the chair, but Merry scooted over to make room for him on the bed, smiling an invitation. Pippin settled in next to him, careful not to jostle his injured arm, and set to preparing the pipe. He gently shook pipeweed into the bowl, inhaling deeply of the earthy aroma, and took an extra moment to tamp it down perfectly with his thumb. "That would be a pipe even your old da would be proud of, Pip," said Merry. Pippin ducked his head to hide a blush of pride, and dug around his pockets for a flint. With a practiced hand he lit the pipe, puffed once or twice to make sure the weed was burning, then placed it in Merry's left hand. Merry grasped it awkwardly, hand trembling slightly, but he managed to get it to his mouth without spilling it.

"Take care, there. If you set your bed alight, Aragorn might decide he's had enough of you and not come to your rescue," admonished Pippin. Merry grinned, held the pipe a little tighter, and took a deep pull at it. He sighed a bit, shutting his eyes and smiling.

"This, my dear cousin, is what I've been waiting for since yesterday." He smiled wider, and puffed again.

Pippin paused. "I've been waiting for you, Merry, for a lot longer than yesterday. I didn't know what to do without you. I was just a bit of luggage bumping along behind Gandalf, then deserted here in Minas Tirith with nobody to talk to."

Merry laid his head back against the carven bedstead, his face growing serious. "It's funny you should say that, Pippin, because I felt the same way. When Gandalf spirited you away, I didn't know what to do. I wasn't sure that you would be all right, after what happened with Saruman's palantir. I was afraid that the illness would come back upon you and Gandalf wouldn't be able to bring you back. There I was, with King Theoden, and Aragorn, and Eomer, and all of those great men. And I was just a hobbit. I think they may have left me behind at Isengard if I hadn't spoken up. They may have forgotten I was even there. I felt like a piece of baggage myself, and I missed you terribly." He paused, and a sudden sheen of tears slicked his eyes. "When you found me in the tunnel, I could scarcely believe it. I was so happy to see you, but part of me felt that perhaps I was dreaming, because I had begun to think I should never see you again."

"I was frightened when I found you there." Pippin grasped Merry's right hand, inspecting the fingers, feeling with relief that the icy chill had begun to recede. "I was excited to see you, but then you were ever so sick. I was afraid you would die. And then I really would be alone, with Sam and Frodo off in Mordor, and Gandalf running all over Gondor. And if I ever did get back to the Shire, I would have to explain to your mum and da that...that I hadn't been able to see you home..." Pippin started to sniffle.

"Oh, Pip," sighed Merry, lowering his pipe. He ducked his head to look Pippin in the eye. "No matter what happens, we started this journey together. And I'm not going to allow them to separate us like this again. You and I are going home together." Pippin nodded, dashed at his eyes, and patted Merry's still cool right hand. Merry started to speak again, but was interrupted by a cavernous yawn that he did not have the energy to cover. Pippin smiled through his tears and took the pipe from Merry's slackening fingers. He tapped the smoldering embers into the cooling bowl of kingsfoil that Aragorn had left behind. The smell of the pipeweed mingled with the scent of kingsfoil, the smell of clean soil and soft athelas. Pippin felt warm all over and his eyelids grew heavy.

He looked down at Merry, who was drowsing, fighting to keep his eyes open. Pippin carefully pulled the coverlet over Merry's chest, tucking his arms under the heavy blanket the way he remembered his nurse doing for him when he was ailing. Merry soon lost his battle with weariness and his eyes fluttered shut. Pippin watched as Merry drifted into deep sleep, the furrow in his brow softening and the lines around his mouth fading. Pippin ran his fingers over Merry's forehead, brushing his curls away from the lashes that fringed his cheeks. He again made sure that Merry was well tucked under the quilts, then blew out the guttering candles on the night table. Merry gusted a sigh in his sleep, his face pallid and pasty in the moonlight. Pippin took a long look at him, and at the brown scar upon his brow, understanding with a pang that to this visible scar had been added an unseen one in Merry's heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**They're not mine. They belong only to the Lord of Middle Earth, JRR Tolkien. Please read and review.**

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As dusk faded to night, Merry awoke and rolled his head restlessly against the pillow. The cool of the sheets against his face gave him faint realization that his skin was aflame with fever, and he was shivering a bit, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He burrowed further into the womb of down blankets, pulling his knees toward his chest and sinking his cheek into the softness of the pillow. The weight of the blankets was delicious after so many bleak, damp nights of sleeping under the sky. Following his long sleep, he decided, he would dine on hot soups and teas and stews and steamed puddings. And now, he told himself, he would never be cold and miserable again.

But his fingers…they were like icicles despite his fever and the toasty cocoon he had created in the bed. He tucked his hand into his armpit, trying to drive out the chill. Yet even as he did so, the cold seemed to be creeping through his arm. Frigid pins and needles slipped up his shoulders to the back of his neck and into his chest, constricting around his heart. His breath grew ragged as if he had plunged into wintry water. He tossed onto his other side, trying to curl tighter into himself. The ice climbed up his neck and slid around his brain. With a cry of frustration, he flung his quilts away and sat bolt up.

_His roughhewn bedstead and linens had disappeared. He wasn't within the Houses of Healing at all. He was laying in a pit of mud, vomit, blood, bits of bodies…the detritus of war. He pushed himself to his feet with great effort, and reached up to wipe a trail of slime from his face with the back of his arm. As he stood there in the stench of the killing field, the sudden remembrance of the battle crashed into his brain. "The King!" he choked, whirling to scan the myriad bodies laid low in the dirt. His eyes fell upon the bloodied bulk of Snowmane. The stallion's great limbs were twisted and broken. His white coat was stained with his blood and with the blood of his lord. And there, dwarfed by the carcass of his horse, lay the body of the king._

_To Merry, Theoden seemed strangely diminished in death. His cheeks had sunken in, framing his teeth in a grim mask of death. Blood was clotting upon his brow, and flies had already gathered to feed. But from that broken visage came a whisper of breath. "Farewell, Master Holbytl…" _

_And as the king spoke his last, an immense mace thundered down upon his helm, sending bits of metal and bone flying. Merry stumbled backward, slipping in a puddle of gore and crashing to the earth, feeling blood splash onto his face. Above him stood the Witch King. His mammoth black robes were shredded and covered with filth, but his form was tall and straight. For now it seemed that Eowyn's blow had gone amiss, and this creature, spawned of shadow, lived still. Merry scrambled over the savaged corpse of the king, crying out loud as the cold, murderous gaze of the Lord of the Nazgul fell upon him._

"_Halfling." The voice was like the hiss of a thousand serpents, a sound that Merry knew would echo in his mind until his last moment. At the Witch King's feet lay the body of Eowyn, her shattered shield about her like petals of funeral flowers, her eyes open and sightless, sad even in death. The Witch King's armored foot was upon her neck, the sharp edges sending rivulets of blood to pool in the hollow of her throat. "You dared strike the Lord of the Nazgul, Captain of Sauron, King of Angmar. And now you shall see what becomes of those who defy the darkness."_

_The creature stepped over Eowyn's body and towered over Merry, who cowered, terror strangling his breath and dimming his sight. As the tip of a cold blade stung under his chin, a blur of images sparked across his mind._

_The Brandywine River, all asparkle at the end of the day, with Brandy Hall lit up in the distance. The windows at Buckland that glowed welcome, portending a hot meal and a welcome of Hobbit hospitality. The warm entrance halls where one could shake the rain from their cloak and the chill from their bones. The kitchen where one could gather with friends and eat the evening away, smoking fine pipeweed, telling stories and basking in the love of family._

_And as steel sliced Merry's flesh, tearing his throat open, drowning him in his own blood, all fear left him. All he could feel was the comfort of the hall, the love of his friends, and the soothing knowledge that home and hearth awaited him, if only he had the strength to live and struggle for his beloved Shire. And as a smile tugged his mouth, all fell into shadow._

A soft mattress yielded beneath his body. Merry struggled to sit upright, but as he put weight upon his right arm, it collapsed beneath him and he knocked his skull against the headboard of the bed. The memory of the dream was still strobing in his brain, and his head pounded in rhythm with his hammering heartbeat. He could feel the compulsion of impending tears pressing at the backs of his eyes. He growled low in his throat, forcing back the sob, allowing his frustration to erupt. The room was dreadfully dark. The moon was only occasionally showing herself from behind huge storm clouds. Every minute or so the clouds, streaked blood red, shone with lightning, and the rumble of thunder across the plains made Merry quiver slightly. He rolled his left shoulder underneath him, wincing as his other arm flopped like a lifeless fish against his stomach. He strained with all his might and managed to raise himself into a seated position. He allowed himself a short moment's rest, puffing from the exertion of merely sitting up. The throbbing in his head increased in volume, a tide crashing against a rocky shore. He took a deep breath and swung his legs over the side of the bed, stretching his feet toward the floor. But this was a bed built for a man, and he lost his purchase on the mattress, plummeting from the edge of the bed onto the stone floor. He landed on his hands and knees, but his arms, unable to hold his own weight, collapsed beneath him and he smashed chin first onto the roughhewn rock. A spurt of pain and blood shot through his mouth as he bit down on his tongue. He spat, ignoring the dribble of spittle and grume that snaked down his chin.

Nausea rolled over him, setting his stomach heaving. He curled his knees against his chest and rested his cheek against the cool floor, willing himself to be completely still, praying that the desperate pangs inside him should subside. He partially hoped that someone had heard his fall, and would come to rescue him. The other part of him, his prideful self, prayed that none had been awakened. He retched once, then violently brought up a scalding stomach-full of blood. A rasping cry issued from his lips, a mewl of fear, weariness and horror at his own helplessness. He sputtered out another mouthful of blood, terrified of choking and being found in such an ignominious position, legs askew at crazy angles and his arms slung wide into a pool of his own vomit. A tear escaped his eye and crossed the bridge of his nose, tickling the skin, before dropping silently to the soiled floor. "So this is how it is," he thought to himself. "My life gone, like piss in an alley."

As he despaired of ever recovering his feet or his dignity, through the crack beneath the door to the bedchamber he saw the light of an approaching candle. Energized anew to keep his pride intact, Merry struggled to get to his feet, but his shaky legs would not hold him. He sank back to the floor, willing with all his might that the bearer of the light should pass beyond his room, but to no avail. The door creaked slowly open and Gandalf entered, preceded by his beard. He stared at the ruffled, empty bed, a look of puzzlement on his wizened face. Merry lifted his head and gave a little whimper, sending a froth of gore spilling from his mouth. Gandalf started, then set the candle hastily upon the bed table. He hurried to Merry's side and, ignoring the spatter of blood and bile, lifted the hobbit into his lanky arms. Merry, despite his humiliation, wearily laid his head against Gandalf's shoulder, relieved at being rescued.

He sighed mightily as Gandalf reinstalled him in the bed. "I'm so sorry, Gandalf," he croaked miserably, trying to ignore the streaks of bloody vomit on his nightshirt. "I'm so very sorry."

"Nonsense," replied Gandalf gruffly. "There's naught to be sorry for, lad." With surprising gentleness, he deftly stripped Merry of his soiled shirt, tossing it in a wad across the room. He silently retrieved a kettle of water that had been simmering softly upon the hearth, and poured its bubbling contents into a basin. He dipped a clean cloth in the water then swabbed it across Merry's throat and chest. "You shouldn't be trying to get up so soon, Meriadoc," he said in a faintly accusatory tone, but there was an undercurrent of concern and, Merry thought, sadness. "You're not well, and all the hobbit stubbornness in the world won't cure this ill."

Merry leaned back into the soft bed pillows, letting the warmth of the water relax his aching muscles. "Am I going to die?" he asked quietly. He was surprised at the lack of emotion raised by this idea, as if he were too weary to even care. Gandalf silently rinsed out the washcloth and resoaked it in the steaming water. He then dug through his pack, bringing forth several sachets of sweet smelling herbs and potions, which he added to the water. He stirred everything into a thick paste, and coated the cloth in the pungent mix. He then carefully laid the poultice across Merry's bare chest. Merry inhaled deeply, sucking in the spicy scent, but immediately broke into a spasm of tortured coughing. Gandalf laced an arm behind Merry's back and pulled him upright, gently rubbing the hobbit's back as he hacked miserably. Finally the attack subsided, and Merry spat out a mouthful of thickly clotted blood, not caring if he soiled the bedding. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, streaking down to soak the hair at his temples and drip into his ears. He gulped greedily for breath, panic rising.

"Slow down, Merry. Calm yourself," murmured Gandalf. "You must calm down, or you shan't be able to catch your air." Merry nodded wildly, hiccupping once or twice, then holding his breath for a short moment. As he slowly exhaled, Gandalf touched his cheek and said, "There's a good lad." Merry sagged back against the pillows in exhausted relief, slowly savoring his breaths.

"What is happening to me, Gandalf?" asked Merry in despair. "Please tell me the truth, don't hide it from me."

"Well, in answer to your first question, Meriadoc, no, you are not going to die." Gandalf settled into the chair beside the bed and took a long moment to light his pipe. "Striking a Nazgul is not without its price, after all. You've taken an injury that is beyond the skill of most men to heal. But thankfully for you, your tender is no mere man, but the King of Gondor, heir of Isildur. And if I've learned only one thing through all my years amongst your kind, it is that hobbits have a tremendous spirit." Gandalf tipped his chin toward his chest and caught Merry's eye. "And from all the hobbits I've ever known, you are one of the most stubborn." Merry half-chuckled, half-choked. "Most other hobbits, not to mention quite a few men, would have given up already, but I can see you're having none of that."

Merry smiled wanly. "Well, having come so far I can hardly allow such a slight setback to end my journey. After all, I am very intent on meeting my end in a manner much better suited to tales around the fire." Gandalf bared his teeth in a rare grin and ruffled Merry's hair.

"The most important thing is for you to rest, lad. No more trying to get up and prance about like some mad Baggins. You're to stay in this bed until otherwise instructed. Otherwise, I shall not be responsible for treating you, and I'm sure Aragorn could be persuaded to follow my lead." With that, Gandalf pulled the quilts over Merry's chest, covering the still warm poultice, and picked up his fragrant pipe. "Sleep," he commanded, retrieving his candle, but he softened the harshness of his tone with a gentle caress of Merry's brow. Merry took a shallow breath, enough to inhale the fragrant steam of the herbs upon his chest, but not so deep as to start himself coughing again. As the scent twined sleepy fingers through his brain, Merry drowsed, then slipped into a depthless slumber.


	3. Chapter 3

**They all belong to Tolkien. Even Freddy. Bless him. Please read and review.**

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_"Oooph!" Merry looked behind him, to where Pippin lay face down in the dirt, spitting and muttering under his breath. Merry guessed he would not want to hear the words, at any rate. He bent and swatted at the younger hobbit's shoulder._

_"Pippin!" He hissed, trying not to laugh at his cousin's pratfall. "Be quiet!" Pippin grumpily clambered to his feet and slapped at his trousers, brushing dust off of his knees. He moved closer to Merry, and together they crept nearer to the side of the hill. Ahead, Merry could see Sam crouched beneath the dining room window of Bag End, his hedge clippers in hand. His curly head was tilted, and Merry could fairly feel him listening. The sun beat down on the back of Merry's neck, pinking the skin, but he did not notice. He took a few more cautious steps toward Sam, glancing around and motioning for Pippin to stay where he was. He rested his hand against the sod-covered wall and knelt in the warm grass, peeping in one of the round, lead-paned windows of the hobbit hole. He could see Frodo inside at the rough-hewn kitchen table, chin in hand, listening intently to the wizard Gandalf. Merry shook his head slightly in wonder. It seemed as if every time Gandalf appeared, everything turned mysterious. _

_Merry glanced behind him, ensuring that Pippin was still hidden and not traipsing about the garden. When he looked back to the window, Gandalf had disappeared and Frodo was crouched by the table, a frightened look on his face. Before Merry could fathom what was happening, Gandalf's long arm suddenly shot out of the window under which Sam was lurking. The wizard seized Sam by the scruff of the neck and snatched him through the window, all in a fraction of a second. Merry suppressed a little squawk of surprise and scuttled backward away from the wall. He gestured wildly to Pippin, who bolted toward the garden gate, ducking behind shrubs along the way. Merry followed at a sprint, looking over his shoulder and expecting to see Gandalf racing after him, robes flying. But he reached the gate safely and vaulted over it to land in the road beside a panting Pippin. _

_"We're caught, Mer," gasped Pippin. "We're caught for sure! Sam'll peach to Gandalf, and he'll come after us! He'll toast us!" He looked fearfully back up the hill toward Bag End. Merry puffed for a moment, trying to catch his breath and slow his heart._

_"Sam won't peach. He's a bit dim, but he's loyal." Merry paused and glanced back, only half believing his own statement. "Come on. We'd best get away from here, in case Gandalf decides to come have a look about outside." Merry grabbed Pippin by the coat sleeve and propelled him down the lane away from the Hill. _

_They walked in silence for a while, down the simple dirt packed road that led up the hill. Pippin thrust his hands in his pockets, whistling quietly, but he occasionally looked over his shoulder as though expecting to see Gandalf stalking them from the hedge. They stopped at the mill bridge and leaned on the stone rail. Pippin stooped to scoop up a fistful of rocks and set to throwing them into the water. He handed one to Merry and watched as his cousin skimmed it expertly, sending it skipping over the shimmering river. Pippin hurled a rock overhanded, bouncing it off the side of the mill and onto the waterwheel, which sent it careening into the grass. "What do you think old Gandalf will do to Sam?" he asked, pegging the mill with another stone._

_"I don't know, Pippin. He's not spiteful or mean, but he can't be happy that Sam was eavesdropping. Somehow I doubt Sam will be very keen on helping us spy out Frodo after this." Merry set his mouth in a grim line. "What in the Shire could Frodo be up to? Why all the secrecy?"_

_"Well, whatever it is, it can't be good. Any time Gandalf is about there seems to be trouble. Maybe he's taking Frodo off on an adventure?" Pippin asked._

_"That's what I'm afraid of. Frodo has been acting strangely since Bilbo left. I shouldn't be surprised if he tried to go off after the old boy."_

_"Not without us, he shan't!" declared Pippin, flinging a pebble into the water. _

_Merry snorted. "Well, that IS the point of our little spying trip, isn't it? Do try to pay attention, Pippin." Offended, Pippin took a swing at Merry, who dodged and tackled his cousin, laughing. Merry pinned Pippin and sat on his back, ignoring his cousin's continued struggles, and contemplating whether to throw him in the river. But soon he spotted Sam tearing up the lane. "Sam!" he shouted, releasing Pippin and waving his arms. Sam skidded to a halt, his face white. Merry trotted over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Are you all right? What happened?" _

_Sam shook his head wordlessly. Merry grasped him by the elbow and led him off the bridge. Sam's eyes were cloudy with tears, and he snuffled every once in a while, "Poor Mister Frodo." A knot of cold anxiety twisted Merry's stomach. He stopped at the Golden Perch, rapping on the window. The barkeep, Sancho Chubb, appeared at the door, shading his eyes against the setting sun._

_"I'm sorry, Mister Brandybuck, but we're closed right now. You know that," said Sancho._

_"I know, Mister Chubb, but I have Sam Gamgee with me, and he's not feeling well. He's had a bit of a shock. May we come and sit in the cool for a while, perhaps have a drink to calm his nerves?" Merry smiled charmingly and gestured toward Sam, who stood silent and pale. Sancho considered a moment, looked about quickly, then set his mouth and gestured them in. The cool darkness of the pub embraced them, a welcome relief from the summer's heat. Merry led Sam to a table in the back of the room and sent Pippin to retrieve a pint of ale. He took one of Sam's rough, calloused hands in his own._

_"What happened Sam?" he asked in a low voice. "What did you hear?"_

_Sam dashed his arm against his eyes and took a deep quivering breath. "He's going away, Mister Merry. He's really going to do it."_

_Merry's heart fell. "Did he say where? And why?"_

_"It's not just on holiday, neither. Gandalf says that one of the treasures that Mister Bilbo brought back from his adventure is very dangerous, and that Mister Frodo must take it out of the Shire. He says that trouble is on its way to Hobbiton, and the sooner Frodo skins out the better." Sam accepted a mug of beer from Pippin, who had pilfered another for himself, and took a deep draught. Merry stared thoughtfully at the table, chewing his lip._

_"It's Bilbo's gold ring, isn't it. The magic ring," he said quietly. Sam nodded mournfully, concentrating hard on his drink._

_"How do you know that, Mer?" asked Pippin._

_"What else could it be? What could be more valuable? I know enough of Bilbo and have read enough of his book to know about his ring. But why is it so dangerous?" Merry pondered._

_And so Sam shared the entire tale of the One Ring with them, punctuated by questions from Merry and commentary from Pippin. "...and Mister Gandalf has ordered me to go along, to pay me out for spying," Sam finished ruefully._

_"But that's good news!" exclaimed Merry. Pippin looked over, confused, a little mustache of ale glistening on his upper lip. "Now there's no way Frodo can slip away unnoticed. There's no way for him to sneak off without us."_

_"But what about the danger? Even Mister Gandalf was afraid of the ring, he wouldn't even touch it. He said that all sort of evil things would be after it. I'm very frightened about going off by ourselves, even with the thought of meeting the elves," protested Sam._

_Merry shook his head forcefully. "We'll have to go with him. He'd never make it all the way to Rivendell without getting caught if he were all alone, with no scouts or extra pairs of eyes. And, pardon me for saying so, Sam, but I don't think even you could keep him safe all by yourself." _

_"Why would Frodo leave at all?" All three hobbits jumped and turned to see Fredegar Bolger leaning against the bar, rubbing a mug with a cloth. "Why can't he just give Old Gandalf that ring?" Merry stood quickly, sending his chair crashing to the floor._

_"Fatty, why are you lurking around here listening to our private conversation?" he snapped, advancing on Fredegar. "What did you hear?"_

_"Nuh...nothing," stammered the frightened hobbit. "Just that Frodo is in trouble, because of Bilbo's treasure." Merry stared at him reproachfully. "Well, how is a hobbit to keep from being curious, with you sitting in the dark whispering amongst yourselves?" Fatty protested. He had always been a bit frightened by Merry, and Merry well knew it. He pushed his finger into Fatty's face._

_"If you dare tell anyone what we've said, we'll pay you out for it. This is no game, and Frodo could be in real danger." Fatty shook his head violently, backing away from Merry._

_"I won't say anything, I won't," he blubbered, wringing the dishcloth in his hands. "I'll do anything, just don't..."_

_Merry shook his head, bemused. "Pull yourself together, Fatty, I'm not going to do anything to you. As a matter of fact, we could probably use your help, if you'll swear to silence." Fatty's chin puckered and he looked near tears. _

_"I won't say anything if it would mean trouble for Frodo. I'd hate to see anything happen to him, especially after all of his Uncle Bilbo's antics. It's as if that wizard Gandalf has put a spell on those Bagginses," he said, snuffling and wiping a forearm across his nose. "But both Frodo and Bilbo have always been kind to me and to my family, and it's a shame about all this trouble." Fatty stood silent for a moment, his round face conflicted. But then he spoke. "What do you need me to do?"_

_"Oh how, oh how did I let you talk me into this!" wailed Fatty, tripping over a thick root and nearly plowing face first into a tree trunk. Merry gestured violently at him to be quiet, and crept closer to the edge of the field. He looked around carefully, then set to filling a sack with carrots. He kept a sharp ear out for Farmer Maggot's dogs, and an eye on Fatty, whom he suspected might bolt at any moment. Pippin was just over the rise, pilfering from the farmer's apple trees. _

_"I need your strong back to help carry all this, that's why," Merry whispered over his shoulder. "We'll likely need as many provisions as we can carry on the way to Rivendell. Besides, having you along while we raid Farmer Maggot's crop is a sure way to keep you from prattling this whole tale to all of Hobbiton." He tossed a full sack of carrots to Fatty, who shouldered it with a whimper. Merry unfurled another burlap bag, but before he could begin perusing for useful items to fill it with, Pippin appeared over the ridge, waving his arms wildly and pointing toward the vicinity of the farm house. _

_In the distance, Merry could hear the barking of dogs, and they were closing fast. "Leg it!" he hissed at Fatty, heaving another sack of pilfered vegetables over his back and pelting toward the road. He slid down the embankment into the road and tossed his bag into the pony cart, and motioned frantically for Fatty to do the same. As Fatty struggled to climb into the cart, Pippin made a flying leap over the hedge into the lane. _

_"They're right behind me!" he gasped, jumping into the cart and grabbing the reins. He swatted them across the pony's flanks, and the pony bolted. Merry only managed to snag the rear of the cart and scramble aboard. The cart rattled down the lane, heading full tilt toward Hobbiton. Pippin was standing at the front, laughing maniacally with relief at their escape. Merry collapsed to the wooden boards, his chest heaving with labored breath. Fatty was clinging to the side of the cart, near tears, watching the hedge with fear. The baying of Farmer Maggot's dogs was fading into the distance, and the quieter they became, the better Merry felt. He rolled onto his side, resting his cheek on the rumbling boards of the cart floor, and shut his eyes. _

Merry woke to the warmth of the afternoon sun bathing his toes. He stretched luxuriantly, noting with a sense of detachment that the icy pins and needles in his arm had dulled, but his fingers still felt thick and difficult to move. His dream lingered near the surface of his consciousness, Fredegar's face seeming burned in the backs of his eyes. He frowned, his heart growing heavy at the thought of his friend. They had been gone for so long, and not given a thought to Freddy, to the danger in which they had left him. He remembered with sadness the look on the young hobbit's face when he realized that they were serious about leaving the Shire. In that moment Freddy understood it was likely that peril would come to the Shire, and that he would be there in Frodo's place. Realization dawned with a burning pressure in Merry's eyes that some heroes had not come on the journey. Some heroes had stayed behind.


	4. Chapter 4

**They're not mine. If they were you could call me JRR Brighid. Please read and review.**

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"Mer?" Merry was roused from slumber by Pippin's hand, gentle upon his forehead. He blinked sleepily, then squinted against the glare of the sun-dappled room. "I'm sorry to wake you, but Gandalf says it is time that you had something to eat, to keep your strength up," said Pippin, not sounding overly apologetic. He wrapped an arm around Merry's shoulders and hoisted him up against the headboard, then plumped a pillow and shoved it behind the small of his back. He plopped a serving board across Merry's legs to serve as a table, and placed upon it a spread of food fit for a king's banquet.

"Heaven save us, Pippin, did you leave any food for the rest of the city?" cried Merry. With effort, he lifted his right arm and let it fall across the board with a thump. He grasped awkwardly at a spoon, his fingers fumbling clumsily, managing to nudge the silver but not capture it. He bit at the corner of his lip in frustration, then gave a bellow of annoyance. "Blast it!"

"Now, now, Merry, it will do you no good to shriek at it. You have to be patient," proclaimed Pippin. He brushed Merry's flailing hand aside and spooned up some broth. He motioned it toward Merry's face, but the scowl he found there made him lower the spoon. "What ever is the matter now?" he asked in exasperation.

"I can't even bloody well feed myself," snarled Merry. "I'm nothing but an invalid who has to be fed like an overgrown foundling!"

"Well, you're certainly behaving like one," retorted Pippin. Merry's jaw dropped and he gaped at his cousin with a mixture of rage and disbelief. "I know you're sick and you're tired, but complaining and shouting like a bad-tempered tweenager won't change that at all. You sound like your father!" Pippin stopped suddenly, the words hanging heavy in the air. The look on Merry's face softened from anger into hurt. "Oh my dear Merry, I'm so sorry," stammered Pippin, chagrined. "I didn't mean that!" Merry dropped his gaze to his lap, staring at his fishbelly-white hand. Pippin's voice went a little frantic. "I didn't mean it, please don't be angry, please forgive me!"

Merry lifted his eyes, ashine with tears, and replied, "I'm not angry, Pippin, I'm not. You're right, you know. Throwing tantrums is not going to help me get better any more quickly." He sought Pippin's gaze and affected a smile. "Now, mumsy, are you going to feed me my dinner or not?" Pippin grinned and dropped his eyes to butter a thick slab of bread. Merry smiled at the top of Pippin's head. The lad had a sunny disposition, no mistake, and was always quick to forget a quarrel. Pippin drizzled the bread with honey and placed it in Merry's left hand. The taste of the hearty bread made Merry give a little sigh of pleasure, and he crammed his mouth full. It seemed as if all the hunger he had felt during the long journey had come back all at once, and that he would never, ever feel sated again. Occasionally the strength in his hand would fail, and a piece of fruit or a sliver of meat would go bouncing from his fingers and rolling down the front of his tunic. Pippin didn't comment, but picked up the morsels and placed them back on Merry's plate, then stood and began to gather up the dirtied crockery of several meals. As he tidied up the room, his mind began to wander.

_"Buckwheat griddle cakes...with fresh raspberries..." The rasping mumble startled Pippin and he twisted slightly against his bonds, turning his head toward the sound. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his orc guard seated cross legged in the grass, his great ugly head nodding as he dozed in the twilight. Assured that he was in no imminent danger, Pippin rolled over quietly and tucked himself against his cousin. The wound on Merry's forehead had stopped bleeding, crusted over with dirt and scab, but his eyes were bruised and swollen shut. He inhaled sharply, and Pippin ducked his head to hear his cousin's words. "Strawberry scones with clotted cream and brown sugar," he mumbled._

_"What are you talking about?" whispered Pippin, nudging Merry with his shoulder. Merry's brow furrowed and he managed to force one eye open. The white of his eye was marred with a bright red clot of blood, the result of a sound cuffing he had taken from one of the orcs. He smiled grimly at Pippin, burrowing closer so as to not awaken the guard._

_"I'm so hungry, Pip, I was thinking about what I should like to eat when we get out of this muddle," he replied. At the very thought of a hearty meal in a warm, dry kitchen, Pippin's mouth began to water._

_"Oh, yes, Mer, that's a lovely thought," he said quietly. He thought hard, trying to recall the last hot, real home-cooked hobbit meal he had eaten. "Mmm, I think I would start with a plate of fruit from the Smials' orchard, with some fresh sprigs of mint and slices of lemon. Then a nice bit of brisket, with boiled new potatoes and some fresh flour biscuits, and a mug of ale, of course." Merry made a distressed sound, half a groan of hunger and half a whimper of longing. "Then a lovely raisin tart and a cup of hot plum tea." _

_Merry muffled a giggle and whispered, "I should never have even brought it up. You've managed to make me even hungrier than I was before!" Pippin started to laugh aloud, but remembered their situation and swallowed it. A large gulping snort escaped him as he tried to quell the tide of hysterical giggles that threatened to overcome him. He ground his face against the dirt as he saw their guard jolt awake and fix them with his frightful yellow eyes. He tried to inch sideways away from Merry, but as the orc lumbered over, snarling curses, Merry rolled atop Pippin, shielding Pippin's face with his chest. Pippin heard rather than felt the first blow fall across Merry's back, and he cringed as Merry's body shuddered. _

_"Get off of me, Mer," Pippin grunted, trying to push his cousin away. Merry clamped his arms over Pippin's chest, pinning him against the dirt._

_"Stop squirming, Pippin," ordered Merry. His voice cracked with pain as he said Pippin's name, and he convulsed again under the blows of the guard._

_"They think it's funny, do they, that we've had to tramp over hill and plain to drag them back to Orthanc?" snarled the orc. "They think it's funny that we've been without fresh meat, without sleep, forced to march under the blasted sun, and for what?" The creature raised his braided cat tail whip again and Pippin heard it whistle through the air, then connect against Merry's neck with a sickening, wet snap. A spatter of hot blood splashed across Pippin's face, and rage rose in him. He pulled his fists to his chest, and shoved against Merry with all his strength. Merry lurched, and the orc caught him by the nape of the neck, snatching him into the air. As he dangled Merry six feet above the ground, he stared down at Pippin with malice-filled eyes. "The old wizard may want you unspoiled, lads, but he didn't say nothing about undamaged," he warned. With that, the orc flung Merry down into the dirt, launched a stunning kick to Pippin's stomach, and stalked back to the tree where he had been dozing._

_Pippin curled in on himself and wrapped his arms around his stomach, coughing and gagging violently. His pulse was pounding in his head and he felt as though his eyeballs were about to pop out and roll away. Retching, he forced his eyes open and spotted Merry crawling toward him. Pippin rolled onto his side and held his arms out for Merry, who collapsed against them. _

_"Are you all right?" asked Merry in a barely audible whisper. Blood was dribbling down his chin. "Pippin?"_

"Pippin?" Merry was staring at him with a worried furrow in his brow. "Are you all right, lad?" Pippin jiggled his head, trying to clear the fuzz of memory from his mind.

"I'm fine, of course. Just thinking about what I should like to have for second breakfast." Merry's face creased into a smile, and the dark memory faded, for a time, from Pippin's recall.


	5. Chapter 5

**They belong to Tolkien, without whom we wouldn't be so enriched in our minds. A side note...anyone who has also read Darkest Before Dawn will recognize an echo in this chapter...that piece was inspired by this...I enjoyed the image so much that I reworked it into Darkest...sorry for the slight repetition.**

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_Merry gusted a sigh as he trudged up the hill toward Bag End. Sam had tracked him down at Brandy Hall to whisper that Frodo had asked after him that morning. _

_He was wearied, sporting dark circles under his eyes after several sleepless nights of planning and packing, and the trip from Buckland had worn him. He raised his hand to knock at the door, but a voice stopped him. "Merry!" He looked over to see Frodo seated in the garden, waving. Merry shuffled over to join him, slumping to a seat on the carven wood bench. Frodo looked at him with concern. "You look exhausted. Are you all right?"_

_Merry nodded and scooted up to sit straighter, passing his hand through his hair. "Just a mite tired, Frodo. It's a long trek from Buckland. Sam says you asked for me?"_

_Frodo nodded and studied his friend's weary face. "I did. I don't know quite how to put it, but I need your help." He paused, gathering his emotions. "I've been thinking a lot since Bilbo left, and I think it's time that I left Bag End as well, left Hobbiton all together actually. I was hoping that you could find me a quiet little place, somewhere out of the way, something small out by Buckleberry."_

_Merry made a show of surprise. "Leaving Hobbiton? What shall you do with Bag End?"_

_Frodo looked at his hands and said, "I have arranged to sell it to Lobelia."_

_Merry didn't have to feign surprise at this. "Lobelia Sackville-Baggins? How could you bring yourself to sell it to her?" he asked in horror._

_"I can't really explain it, Merry. I shall only say that I need to leave Hobbiton, and I don't intend to return. It has become difficult to live here without Bilbo, and with people always calling about this and that." Frodo fiddled with his coat buttons, and his eyes were filled with sorrow. Merry bit his tongue, wanting to blurt out all that he knew, to tell Frodo that he and Sam and Pippin intended to go with him on his journey. He settled for laying a hand on Frodo's shoulder._

_"Of course I shall find you a place. And we'll make it as much a home as Bag End has been to you, and you'll finally be able to have some peace," he said quietly. He paused, searching Frodo's face. "But are you sure you want to sell Bag End to Lobelia?"_

_A smile ghosted across Frodo's face, then he succumbed to a laugh. "I'm afraid so, Merry. Perhaps finally having it will make her a more pleasant person to have around." Merry shook his head._

_"Not that one. She's as sour as week old milk, and no mistake. But away by Buckland you won't have to see her, at any rate, and that's an improvement over her weekly inspections up here on the Hill."_

_Frodo chuckled again. "Ever since I came here, she's been sure I would destroy Bag End, by fire or cave-in or some other disaster. She might crack a smile, yet, when I tell her."_

_"She may crack a smile, then she may drop in her tracks. What else has she to live for but the hope of rousting you from Bag End?" Merry elbowed Frodo in the side, grinning. But Frodo's smile had faded, and he sat silently for a moment._

_"Thank you, Merry," he finally murmured. Merry looked askance at him. "Thank you for being my friend, and for helping me. It won't be easy for me to leave this place, but I know you'll do all you can to make it better." He gave a pause and a sad smile. "That's our Merry. Always taking care of everyone. You should remember, friend, that there are some things you can't help out of sheer determination. Some problems are bigger than what one hobbit can solve." Merry fought off another urge to shriek out all that he knew, but instead slapped Frodo on the knee._

_"I'll do all I can. I'm here for you, no matter what." Merry got up and left the garden quickly, ducking his head to hide the tears in his eyes. _

Merry opened his eyes and blinked away the dream. The moon had waned sliver thin, casting a blue glow across the flagstone floor of the room. Feeling strangely restless, Merry flung his coverlets away and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He grimaced at the memory of his earlier fall, and slid gently down the mattress, reaching with his toes toward the floor. The cold of the stone made him shiver, but he was warmed by pleasure as he found that his legs would now hold his weight. He took a few tentative steps, testing his strength and balance. He couldn't suppress a smile as he padded gently toward the window. He had never known that something so simple as walking unaided could feel like such an accomplishment. He reached the window and leaned against the sill, craning his neck to raise his face to the sky. The night was cold and hard, the stars shining like unblinking eyes in a black face.

He turned his gaze away from the sky and scanned the garden. The Houses of Healing were perched upon one of the highest walls of the city, just below the citadel, surrounded by a parapet carefully wrought of white stone. The grass of the garden was thick and well kept, and small shrubs bore tiny white flowers that lent the evening a sweet smell. Merry inhaled, deeply but carefully, mindful of the danger of another fit of coughing, and allowed himself another small smile. The Houses seemed a surreal glen of calm in a besieged city.

Quite suddenly, a slight movement caught Merry's attention. He fell into an instinctive crouch, and peeked around the side of the window.

On the stone wall of the parapet there stood a woman. Her white bedclothes were covered by a cloak of sable, and her hair was pinned into a tight knot. Her feet were bare, the color of aged ivory. A gale of wind roared by her, molding the cloak to her form, sending a few white flowers whirling around her. She lifted her hand and released the clasp at the nape of her neck. Her hair lifted with the wind, and floated free around her face. It was Eowyn.

A sudden fear gripped Merry that she would leap from the wall, and with great effort he lifted himself through the window. He crept up beside her, taking care not to make any noise that might startle her and cause her to lose her footing. As he peeped over the edge of the wall, he felt sick at the sight of the cliffs falling away in sharp crags. Far below winked the lights of the watchmen of the gates. Merry considered grabbing at Eowyn's robes with both hands and yanking her back to safety in the garden, but it seemed somehow too crass an action to use on the Lady, and he feared injuring her further. Instead, he whispered, as quietly as he could manage, "My lady..."

She did not turn to look at him, but Eowyn's shoulders tensed slightly. A deep sigh lifted her breast, then she stepped down from the wall, her feet sinking deeply into the dewy grass. Merry let out a gasp, only then realizing that he had been holding his breath. Eowyn gathered her hair into her hands and lifted it back into a light bun, but did not turn to look at him. "Merry," she said quietly.

"Are you all right, Lady?" he asked quietly, lifting his hand to brush her elbow. She smiled, but it did not reach into her eyes. She laid her strong hand over his and squeezed it lightly.

"I am all right, Merry. I was merely trying to see something of the battlefield." She turned and walked wearily back toward the Houses, still holding his hand in her own. Halfway there, she faltered, and sank to the grass, folding her legs underneath her cloak. Merry knelt at her side and laid his hand upon her shoulder, worried, but he said nothing. She stared back toward the cliffside, her eyes clouded and sad, but without tears. "How could this have happened?" she said, though Merry could scarcely catch her words. "How could I have let this happen..." Her voice broke and she fell silent.

"Lady Eowyn, you did everything you could have done to save the King," Merry whispered, lacing his arm around Eowyn's back. "The Captain of the Black Riders was a foe beyond all of us. We are both fortunate to be alive ourselves."

"Fortunate?" Eowyn gave a harsh bark of laughter, then caught herself and sighed. "Fortunate," she said again, quietly. "I would have been fortunate if I had been able to take the King's place there, killed by that beast."

"No!" protested Merry, horrified. "No, my Lady, you were not meant to die there! You are too..." Merry stopped himself, and tempered his volume. "You did not do anything wrong, my Lady. The King's death was not your fault."

Eowyn gave a barely perceptible shake of her head. "I was distracted, my mind was not on the battle. If I had not allowed myself to think of..." Her voice hitched, as if she had sobbed, but her eyes were dry.

As Eowyn opened her mouth to continue, strong hands clapped down on both of their shoulders. Merry gave a little shriek of surprise and whirled to shield Eowyn's body with his own. Aragorn stood there, the thin moon sending a sheen of silver light through his dark hair. "I should have known that my two most stubborn patients would find one another and conspire to ignore my instructions as to their healing," he said wryly. Merry's body sagged with relief and he turned to smile at Eowyn, but she would not meet his eye, staring instead into the distance. "As bad as it is that you would get out of bed before I gave my leave, you both choose to do so in the chill of night and wander barefoot in the wet grass. I suppose I should have foreseen it." Aragorn reached out and took Merry's hand. He extended his other hand to Eowyn, but she ignored it and struggled to her feet without his aid. She brushed by Aragorn, her shoulder bumping audibly against his, and stumbled back toward the Houses of Healing. Aragorn looked after her, and Merry was startled by the sad light in his eyes.

"What is wrong with Lady Eowyn, Aragorn?" Merry asked quietly. "Why is she so sad? Why does she think the King's death is her fault?"

"Does she think that?" asked Aragorn, concern furrowing his brow.

"She does." Merry looked at his hands, twisting his fingers together. "I feel as though I'm betraying her trust even telling you this," he said, giving a short, strangled chuckle. "She thinks, somehow, that she did not do enough, that her whole mind was not on the battle, and that if it had been, she could have saved the King. But what could she have been thinking about that would distract her from something so important?" When Aragorn did not answer, Merry bit his lip hesitantly. "Perhaps it is nothing, Strider, but when I came upon her here in the garden, she was standing atop the wall." Aragorn looked sharply at him, and Merry thought he saw a flash of fear in the ranger's eyes. Discomfited, he hurriedly continued. "I was afraid that she was going to jump off, but she said she was only trying to see the battlefield."

"Thank you for telling me this, Merry." Aragorn knelt and took both of Merry's shoulders in his hands. "You shouldn't worry about the Lady Eowyn. She is going through the same things you are, having dared to battle that deadly foe. But she also has a deep sadness, my friend, which I do not know how to heal. We can only hope that she finds the strength within to battle that foe as well." Aragorn took Merry by the hand again and led him back to his bower, where he silently installed him back into the bed. Merry watched as Aragorn stoked the fire. The man's eyes were hooded and darkened with some strange sadness. He straightened and walked quietly from the room, leaving Merry in confusion and fear. He shut his eyes and thought hard about Eowyn, and why she might seem so sad, and about the look of sorrow in Aragorn's eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

_Merry plunked his empty tankard onto the wooden table and gave a grin of satisfaction. The Green Dragon was nearly empty, most of the patrons having staggered away into the night to sleep off the remainder of the evening's overindulgence. He glanced around the dark pub, at Hob Boffin, who was face down at the bar and singing under his breath. Moonlight shone through the round windows, mingling with the firelight and casting silver shadows into the corners. Sighing with contentment, Merry tossed a few coins onto the bar, smiled at barkeep Sancho Chubb, and stepped into the night. _

_The smell of hyacinth was on the air from the low gardens along the road and Merry took a deep lungful of the scent. He slipped his hands into his pockets, whistled against the darkness, and set off across the field toward Bag End. But a low sound beyond the fence by the river drew his gaze. He placed a hand on the fence spar and swung his legs over with a practiced jump, listening hard to the night. His sharp hobbit eyes spied a small form silhouetted against the lamplight of the street, folded into a heap at the riverside. "Hello?" he said quietly, not wanting to startle the figure. He stepped closer and looked down into the tearstained face of Estella Bolger. "Tella, are you all right?" he asked, concerned._

_Estella gave a small sniffle and dashed her hand across her face. "I'm fine, Merry. A spot of bad news is all." Merry settled to a seat at her side and threaded his arms around his knees. He looked sideways at his friend's sister. Though she was three years his junior, Estella was looking far more grown up than he had realized. She was, as usual, in a dark, plain dress, free of the ribbons or frills that other hobbit lasses of her age seemed to favor. Despite the constant disapproval of her very proper mother, Estella preferred to tramp the hillside rather than to attend the socials at which she was expected to make a match befitting her standing. In her younger years she constantly shadowed Freddy, acting as a sort of mascot for his friends. But now...now Merry's heart sank at the sight of her reddened eyes and the slight downturn at the corners of her mouth. She made another attempt to collect herself, drawing her sleeve over her face. "It's my da...he's taken ill again with the summer fevers. I heard Poncho Sandhill tell my mum that he'll likely not ever be the same after this bout. It's just taken too much from him." Her voice thickened with what Merry recognized as impending tears. "It's just not fair, Mer..." _

_Unable to respond, Merry slipped an arm around Estella's shoulder and drew her to his side. She laid her hair against his throat and sighed shakily. Together, wordlessly, they sat and watched the reflection of the stars wheel in the water, with both their hearts aching for very different reasons. _

Pippin's hand roused Merry from his reverie. "What are you thinking about, Mer? You looked positively doleful," proclaimed Pippin, yanking the coverlets away and tossing a pair of breeches at Merry. "Get dressed, now. Don't dawdle, you silly hobbit." Merry stared at Pippin, openmouthed. "Aragorn says that since you're so eager to be up and about, you shan't be lazing the days away anymore, only to get up in the middle of the night to stalk the grounds." A flush of heat raced over Merry's face, and he started pulling the trousers on with his left hand. He struggled with the buttons on the braces, his fingers refusing to cooperate. Anger rose in him, but he bit it down and looked to Pippin for assistance.

"Yes, indeed," continued Pippin. "Aragorn told me all about your little escapade last night with Lady Eowyn. What are you thinking, sneaking out of a perfectly cozy bed at night to go wandering about the gardens in naught but your nightshirt?" Pippin pulled the braces from Merry's grasp and buttoned them quickly. "So Strider says its time you built your strength during the daylight, like regular people, instead of in the dead of night. Gimli and Legolas are eager to see you up and about as well. The healers wouldn't let them in, as they thought that too many visitors might hinder your recovery." Pippin prattled on as he buttoned Merry's shirt. He stopped and looked Merry up and down once, then licked his palm and ran his hand through Merry's thick curls. "There now, at least you look presentable."

"I haven't been treated so since Nanny Pearl, when I was a lad back at Brandy Hall," complained Merry. He had to smother a fit of giggles at the thought of Pippin in his Nanny's dresses, all bustling skirts and spilling cleavage. He snorted a bit with mirth and Pippin shot him a suspicious look.

"I must go attend to other duties for a spell. I've neglected my responsibilities while caring for you, thank you very much, and am now far behind in distinguishing myself in the service of Gondor," Pippin said grumpily, his intuition telling him that Merry was sniggering at him. "Legolas and Gimli shall be stopping in for you shortly, to take you for a turn upon the city walls. They've been patrolling out on the plains for quite a time, and are back in the city for a furlough before the time comes to take the Battle to Mordor." Pippin stripped his shirt and breeches off, and began dressing himself in the livery of Gondor. Merry watched him silently, a cold knot of disquiet growing in his stomach.

"Pippin," he said quietly. Pippin looked up at him, fingers pausing at the buckles of his hauberk. Merry felt tears sting his eyes and he choked out, "You will be a knight of knights for Gondor. Your father would be proud of you." He paused, and a sad little smile crossed Pippin's face. As Merry looked at him standing there, his chain mail shirt covered by a tunic bearing the mark of the White Tree, Pippin suddenly seemed tall and grim. His bearing was strangely changed from the hobbit lad of Merry's remembrance, to a hobbit of great deportment, straight-backed and purposeful. "I am proud of you," finished Merry, nearly inaudibly.

Pippin's face was sober as he placed his hands upon Merry's shoulders. "Merry Brandybuck, you are my friend and my family. You have brought us through danger and death, and have never wavered in the face of peril or menace. If anyone is proud, it is I of you." He laid his hand upon Merry's forehead, and gently caressed the brown scar there with his thumb. "And I want you to remember that you and I shall be going home together. So you mustn't worry about me, dear Merry, for though I am sworn to fight for Gondor, I am first sworn to you, my first and my best friend." At that, Merry found the strength to fling his arms around Pippin's neck and crush him close, and the two hobbits clung to one another and wept.

They were interrupted by a loud "harrumph". They looked up, dashing at their tear-stained faces, and saw Gimli and Legolas crowded in the doorway. "If we are not interrupting, young hobbits, we must be away if we are to get Merry any sort of exercise today," grumbled Gimli, trying to look put out, but the happy creases around his eyes belied his ruse. Pippin released Merry, running his arm over his face.

"Of course, Gimli. I have much to do as well. And don't fear tiring old Merry out. The more weary he is, the less the chance of him ranging the grounds in the dead of night," scolded Pippin.

"Fear not, friend. We shall care for him as well as you should," replied Legolas, handing Pippin his buckler and sword. With a skeptical but resigned look, Pippin hitched his cloak around his shoulders, petted Merry's cheek once softly, and left the room.

Gimli rested his axe against the wall and sat down with a weary grunt upon a low stool by the fire. Legolas gently took Merry's shoulders and knelt to look into the hobbit's face. "Dear Merry, it is a wonder and a blessing to see you again, my friend." With that, the elf enfolded Merry with his arms and hugged him softly to his chest. "We have spent long nights fearing for your health, and were denied our desire to stay at your side while you ailed." Merry pressed his cheek against Legolas' shoulder, strangely awed, amazed that he should be held close by a prince of elfkind.

"And I have missed both of you," he replied, pulling away from Legolas, a mite embarrassed by the attention. "I've been fairly well but the healers are more than a little bit protective of me. I fear that perhaps Aragorn put terror into them that he would hold them responsible if anything else were to happen to me." Merry forced a short laugh.

Gimli nodded, combing at his beard with his fingers. "I would venture you are right there, lad. Aragorn spent quite a lot of time here, hovering over the healers, until he was sure that you were on the mend. After that Pippin seemed to take over as the bearer of the whip."

Legolas took Merry by the hand and led him out of the Halls into the garden. As they walked, Legolas and Gimli spoke of the Paths of the Dead, and of the coming of the Corsairs to the battle at Pellenor, and of the rout of the armies of Sauron at the gates of Minas Tirith. Merry said little, his face grim as he listened to their tales. Gimli recounted the battle at Helm's Deep, taking special care to mention, with a rumbling laugh, that his count had passed Legolas' by one. Legolas merely smiled and laid his hand upon the dwarf's shoulder, and Merry marveled that they seemed close as brothers.

They talked long, until the shadows lengthened upon the grass and the sun began her journey down into the west. Legolas and Gimli walked Merry back to the Houses, but he desired to sit in the late afternoon sun, and bade them leave him for a while. The elf and the dwarf exchanged a troubled look, but left him as he wished upon a bench beside a fragrant, flowering lilac bush. He closed his eyes against the fading light, and it cast shadows of saffron and rose upon his eyelids.

Merry did not know how long he drowsed there, and when he finally awoke, he was startled to find his head resting on the shoulder of another person, who was gently stroking his hair. He opened his eyes and sat up quickly, flushing scarlet and turning to apologize. But the words stopped short in his throat, for next to him, clad in a gown of deepest midnight, was the Lady Eowyn. Merry tried to stutter an apology, his embarrassment deepening until he could feel the tips of his ears burning with chagrin. Eowyn smiled and shook her head slightly, murmuring, "All is well, Merry. You needn't look so shamed. You looked so comfortable, sleeping here, that I thought I should join you."

Merry ducked his head and stammered, "I do beg your pardon, Lady, I should never have been so bold as to..."

"As to use me as your pillow?" Eowyn laughed quietly and shook her head. "You and I have been through much together, dear Merry, and you shouldn't bother about something so simple as tipping over in your sleep." Merry could not help but smile.

"Of course, my Lady, I was merely startled. It is not often that I awake with my head pillowed upon..." He stopped and flushed again, and Eowyn smiled.

"If I didn't know any better, I would guess that you were about to be very cheeky," she said, and they laughed together again. "I am glad to see you about in the daylight. I presume that you were given the same lecture as I about staying abed when the moon is out."

"I was," replied Merry. "Pippin fairly cuffed me about the head. I think I shall obey, for another scolding from him might be the end of me." He sighed and looked out over the walls. "At any rate, I find myself so very tired, it is probably just as well that I stay abed." He gusted a sigh and studied his hands. It seemed to him that they should never look clean again. Dirt had seeped into every crack and line of his skin, and his fingernails were ragged and torn. Blisters and blood welts had formed upon his palms, for he was unused to sword work. His knuckles were gashed and scabbed. As he looked at them, he felt contaminated to his core, not by the filth upon his skin, but by every horrible sight he had seen since leaving the Shire, and by all the truths that had been revealed along the way.

"I understand, Merry, for I too feel weary to my very bones." Eowyn sighed and took Merry's hand in her own. "I feel somehow that though the sun shines, it shines through me, and will not touch me again. And it seems that no one else shall ever comprehend that." She softly stroked his fingers and shook her head. "Except for you of course, dear Merry, for only you were there with me, only you."

"I do understand, Eowyn," blurted Merry. "Somehow it seems that no matter what should happen, I shall never, ever be truly happy again. I feel that even in moments of joy there will always be a ghost of sorrow lingering. Death, desolation, loss...so much horror and fear...having to hide doubt of myself, trying to be stouthearted and brave..." Merry's words tumbled out as though a dam had burst and his thoughts were rushing out, unchecked. "After all of that I will end each day alone, for no one will ever know what is behind my heart."  
Tears sprang to Eowyn's eyes and she pressed Merry's hand to her lips. "Dear hobbit, only friend," she murmured against his fingers, and in that moment Merry knew that if he were a man, or Eowyn a hobbit lass, he would love her. He laid his other palm to her cheek and allowed his own tears to fall. Eowyn bowed to rest her forehead upon his, and her tears fell upon his face.

Together they sat that way for a long time, until they were interrupted by the sound of a man gently clearing his throat. "I do apologize for interrupting, My Lady, Master Hobbit," said Faramir quietly, kneeling in the grass at their feet. "Lord Aragorn asked that I retrieve you to the Houses, as the weather threatens to turn." Eowyn wiped at Merry's cheeks with her thumb, then accepted Faramir's outstretched hand. Merry grasped the man's other hand, and together they retreated to the houses, pursued by the low rumble of thunder in the west.


	7. Chapter 7

**::Checks:: No, they're still not mine. ****Please read and review.**

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_Night was creeping through the trees as Merry rode down the lane outside of Buckland. Thunder was rolling in the distance and a hot wind was rustling, hissing through the leaves. He turned the cart into the path outside the cottage at Crickhollow. The windows were dark like lidded eyes in the twilight, and the hedge loomed menacingly behind him. He hurried to the large round door, fitting the key to the lock as quickly as he could. He had left Pongo the pony champing in the lane, ready to depart at a moment's notice. He could not explain the growing sense of panic that he was feeling, only that it seemed like a great hand closing in around him, seeking to snatch and crush him in its grip. He had not felt fear in the darkness of Buckland before. Shoving the door open, he dropped his pack on the entryway floor and knelt to kindle a fire on the hearth. As the wood flared to crackling flame he sighed and turned to the door again. He did not relish venturing back into the night, but he berated himself for being foolish and stepped back onto the stoop._

_Ignoring the twinges of pain in his back, Merry set to unloading the pony cart, lugging Frodo's trunks into the house and cursing himself for not forcing Pippin to come along and lend a hand. After a few trips back and forth between the house and the cart he sat down on the front step and drew his arm across his brow. As he looked at the horizon a chill crept up his neck, making his hair shiver and stand on end. The storm was drawing near, a huge black shadow creeping across the sky. A shudder wracked through him and foreboding rose in his heart. He looked toward the garden, and terror washed over him like a flood. He could see a dark, crouching shape beyond the tall willow tree. He squinted against the darkness, trying to talk himself out of fleeing like a hobbit lass. The shadowy figure shuffled forward, moving around the garden stakes at the rear of the house. Merry rose slowly to his feet, creeping toward the pony cart, never taking his eyes off the stranger. Running his hand along Pongo's neck, he gathered the reins in his hands. He felt as though time had slowed, crawling along second by second. The night seemed clear and sharp, and he could hear the far off clock tower bells in Buckland. He clicked his tongue at Pongo, who shied nervously, ears pinned back. Merry felt slightly better that the pony was frightened as well. Silently he led Pongo toward the lane, willing him to be calm and quiet. A crate in the rear of the cart settled slightly, rattling, and Merry's heart leapt into his throat. He whipped his head around, expecting the dark shadow to leap at him from the garden. But there was only moonlight upon the grass._

_Merry led Pongo into the lane and looped the reins loosely around the fencepost. Drawing a deep breath to steel himself, he crept back through the gate. He could see the firelight flickering in the house, a warm orangey glow in the window. A splash of warm rain plopped on his head, dripping through his hair and running down his forehead. He ignored it, though it tickled the bridge of his nose, and stalked silently along the hedge toward the rear of the house. The desire to flee as fast as his feet would take him was overwhelmed by the need to make sure that his friends were not riding into a trap. He pressed himself against the wall of the house and peeked around the corner into the rear garden. A sudden flash of lightning, followed closely by a violent roll of thunder, lit the yard in stark relief to the darkness of the surrounding woods. There, stooping beside the wooden bench amid tall bushes of holly, was a great figure veiled in black cloaks. It spotted Merry and rose quickly with a whispery hiss. Merry froze, blood running cold, and could do nothing but stare as the shadow stalked toward him, arm outstretched._

_In two strides it was upon him, and it snatched him roughly by the throat. Merry tried to choke out a scream for help but couldn't even muster a whisper. He struggled against the shadowy grasp, but to no avail. his chest burned with the need for air and he lashed out with his hands, trying to force himself free. His fingers raked at empty air, flailing uselessly. Slowly, a veil of darkness began to close from the corners of his vision, his sight tunneling until all he could see was the blackness of the one who was strangling the life from him. As his struggles waned to an occasional twitch and death pulled its cloak over his eyes, Merry heard a cold whisper. "Die now..."_

Pippin stretched mightily as he padded through the courtyard and into the houses of healing. The place was filling rapidly, with the less seriously wounded bedded on cots in the corridors. He smiled at Beregond, who was kneeling at the side of one of his soldiers. Pippin laid a hand lightly upon the captain's shoulder in greeting. He paused briefly at Merry's door, taking one last look up and down the hallway at all the battered and bloodied forms, lying silently, sightlessly. With a weary sigh, he pushed the door to and stepped inside.

Merry was laying sprawled upon the bed, the sheets and blankets twisted crazily around his legs, his hair wild upon the pillows. He was twitching a bit in his sleep, his fingers flexing and curling. Pippin stooped to stoke the fire, taking a moment to straighten the pile of freshly laundered linens upon the chair. Suddenly Merry made a terrible sound in his chest, a gurgling, choked strangle. Pippin whirled and darted to Merry's side. He shook his shoulder violently, calling "Merry!" He placed his hand upon Merry's forehead, but there was no heat of fever, nor cold sweat.

Merry tossed away from Pippin's touch, squeaking out a strangled, "No!" Pippin gripped Merry's nightshirt and yanked him into a sitting position. Merry's eyes flew open and he grabbed Pippin in a crushing embrace, his body heaving with residual terror at his nightmare. Pippin held him close, his cheek pillowed upon the top of Merry's head, and shushed his cousin gently. "It was him! The Witch King! He killed me..." Merry gasped against Pippin's chest.

"It was only a dream, Merry, it's over now," he whispered, stroking Merry's hair softly. Slowly, Merry's terrified pants waned to the occasional hiccup. Pippin gently unwrapped himself from Merry's arms and pushed him back into the pillows. "You are safe, Merry lad. I'm here, I'll keep you safe." Merry laid a trembling hand over his eyes and sighed deeply.

"I'm all right, Pippin...a bad dream." Merry took a deep breath and dropped his head back against the headboard with a dull thump. "Just a dream," he repeated to himself. Pippin watched with concern for a moment, plucking absently at the coverlet. Merry shook his head slightly and smiled. "Honestly Pip, I'm fine. I was just startled out of sleep."

Pippin frowned his disbelief but said nothing more of it. He instead busied himself with flinging open the heavy draperies to let the sun stream in. His heart was twisting within him, conflict raging. Finally he steeled himself and turned back to his cousin. "I'm leaving today Merry," he announced. Merry's eyebrows rose, then knitted together in confusion. "The army is leaving today for the black gates. We are taking the war to Sauron. We're giving Frodo and Sam more time." He could not hide the pride in his voice, or the fear.

Merry's eyes flickered over Pippin, taking in his armor and the sword dangling at his hip. He chewed at a corner of his lip, then blurted, "Why do you have to go? What possible use is there for a hobbit in such a battle?" Merry blanched a little at the look of hurt that crossed Pippin's face.

"The same use there was for a hobbit in the battle at Pelennor." Pippin hoisted himself to sit on the edge of the bed and ducked his head to look into Merry's eyes. "You promised that we would go home together, and we will. But I pledged my loyalty to Gondor, as you did to Rohan. I have to do my duty." He paused. "I'll be back Merry. I promise."

Merry looked at him for a long moment, then nodded, his mouth twisting with an effort not to cry. "Go do your duty, soldier of Gondor."


End file.
